This piece was originally titled “Woman Envisions Herself In The Arms of a Prima Ballerina” when it appeared as an “Erotic Fantasy” in the January 1994 issue of Penthouse Variations. My boss loved the ballet so I wrote this as a bit of kinky ass-kissing.
When I was a child my parents sent me to ballet lessons—and I hated them. I was not as coordinated as the other students and my body just didn’t seem to be as fluid. Today, as an adult, I no longer have two left feet, but I will never be as graceful as a ballerina. And my body has settled into what is euphemistically referred to as a Rubenesque figure: wide fleshy hips, large heavy breasts and many womanly curves. At least I am able to enjoy watching the ballet, though, and when I do, I sit mesmerized, marvelling at the beauty of the dancers. It is at the ballet that I engage in my favorite fantasy.
I am waiting backstage after a particularly moving performance of “Giselle,” with a bouquet for the prima ballerina. I want very badly to see her slender limbs up close. There is a slight chill in the air as I huddle in the near dark, waiting for the door to open. Many of the other dancers have been flitting by on their way to parties or dinner, and I wonder if perhaps the prima ballerina has left through another door. But then there she is, looking directly at me as I hand her the bouquet of fragrant lilacs.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice as clear as her flawless complexion. There are rose blossoms in her cheeks, forget-me-nots in her eyes and her fine, flaxen-colored hair is wound tightly into a bun on the crown of her elegant head.
“You look wonderful,” I manage to gasp, so taken am I with her beauty.
“Thank you again,” she says warmly, her lush eyelashes fluttering. “Where are you going now?” she asks. “Dinner? A party?” I admit to her that I have no plans. “Perhaps you would like to join me,” she says invitingly. “I always follow a performance with a long walk . . . to relax.” I graciously accept and follow her as she starts out briskly toward the river.
As we walk, she asks me about my interest in ballet, what I do for a living, and I answer her shyly. She tells me about her years at Juilliard and her travels, and I take it all in hungrily. When we come to the river, reflecting a brilliant moon, she sits down on a park bench and pats the spot beside her. “Sit, sit,” she suggests. And I do.
For a few minutes we sit in silence. I am barely able to breathe, I am so electrified by our closeness. Her delicate ankles are crossed, every bone in her thin, strong legs visible through her luminous skin. Her delicate hands are crossed in her lap and I long to hold them to my breast, to touch her tiny, firm breasts. I want to pull the hairpins from her hair and run my fingers through her soft curls. I am aware that my breathing has quickened, coming now in almost audible pants. I stare at her longs legs, so gracefully tangled beneath her, swinging from the bench. “I’m a bit chilled,” she whispers. “Would you mind putting your arm around me? I can feel your warmth from here.” My tongue feels like a fat sea sponge and I am unable to answer her, but I carefully slip my arm around her tiny waist. She wriggles closer to me and leans against my shoulder. I am terrified that she will hear my heart pounding, skipping, I am so aroused. I wonder if she has any idea how her beauty affects me. And then she reaches into my blazer and cups my breast.
“I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have a large bust,” she says, hefting my breast and running her thumb over my stiffening nipple. “Yours certainly feel wonderful.” I am still unable to speak. “Would you like to feel mine?” she asks, turning toward me. “They’re really nothing in comparison to yours.”
I swallow dryly and croak, “No, no. They’re positively exquisite. I’ve fantasized about breasts such as yours for years.” And I hesitantly touch them, two tiny, firm mounds, her nipples poking stiffly underneath her leotard.
“Do you like my body?” she asks impossibly. I nod an emphatic yes, my gaze fixed on her tender breasts. “I’d like you to have it,” she chirps. “But just for tonight,” and she laughs. With the pulling of a few Danskin ties, her leotard and wrapskirt fall to the ground and she stands before me in nothing but her pale coral tights and fragile ballet slippers. I can see her dark blonde thatch through the transparent fabric and I press my fingers into the soft tuft.
“That’s nice,” she purrs. “Please, don’t stop.” She steps closer to me as I sit on the bench, admiring her attenuated limbs, her waspish torso and her hip bones poking sharply through her tights. After sliding my palm suggestively between her legs, I pull at the elastic waist and roll her tights down to her ankles, revealing her pale triangle and long, slender legs. She spryly steps out of her slippers and the curled-up tights, huddling close to me. I pull her to my chest, wrapping her in my blazer, inhaling the smell of the shampoo, sweat and hair spray in her perfect little bun.
“May I take your hair down?” I whisper.
“Of course,” she mumbles into my chest, her warm breath setting my skin afire.
As my fingers search for her hairpins, I feel her fumbling at the buttons of my blouse. One by one I pull her hairpins loose; one by one she unfastens my buttons. Her blonde curls fall loosely to her shoulders and I rake my fingers through them, holding my breath as I feel her moist lips caress my cleavage.
Now I have her, here, in front of me. Naked and unfurled. Her hands and mouth are working my nipples and skin, and I am paralyzed. She senses my uncertainty and leans up. “Is this what you want?” she asks, proferring her blonde pussy. I can smell her sex, intermingled with a sweet tang of sweat, only inches from my face. My heart is lurching crazily in my chest. “My goodness, but you’re shy,” she exclaims, and in seconds she is climbing onto my lap. Then, placing one fragile foot on either side of my thighs and turning her toes in a dainty second position, she tenses her thighs in a plié. The delicate hairs of her pussy graze my face. The wrinkly, pink folds of her labia are dangling before me and I finally overcome my reticence.
Reaching around, I firmly grip her shapely, flexed bottom and pull her forward. My nose is lost in her tangle of pubic curls and I extend my tongue, sliding it back and forth over her tiny protruding clitoris. She squeals and squirms and urges me on. As I rock her body toward me rhythmically, she rides my lapping tongue until I feel every sinewy muscle in her body tense. I frantically flick her clitoris with my tongue until her knees shake and she moans deeply and the tension flows from her. With a sharp sob and one last shudder, her orgasm consumes her completely. She collapses into my lap and kisses me deeply, her tears mingling with the taste of her tongue and my tongue and the taste of her sex.
I cradle her gently, listening to her breathing. “You were wonderful,” she whispers, gazing up at me, the pastel bouquet of her features now in full bloom. “Thank you,” I reply.
